


If Your Dog Has No Nose, How Does It Smell?

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers Feels, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - The Funniest Joke in The World, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Crack, Crack Treated Really Seriously, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack Treated So Seriously It May Come Full Circle Back to Crack Again, Fluff, Inspired by Monty Python, Look it's a Monty Python fusion, M/M, Monty Python fusion, No shame; I walk into this with head held high, Post-Recovery Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels, you be the judge - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: Steve studied the photos arrayed in front of him, then looked up at Peggy. "What's the weapon?""A joke."Steve stared at her as Bucky said, incredulously, "Are you seriously telling me a joke killed them?""It's been tested, Sergeant. It works. Mr Scribbler accidentally created a joke so funny that it kills people."A killer joke. Steve wanted to bury his face in his hands and laugh. "Alright. You've developed a killer joke that can take out the Germans. What do you need me for?"One of the British Commanders leaned forward. "The problem we're facing, Captain Rogers, is that it's a weapon almost too dangerous to use, since an ordinary man," he said meaningfully, "can only take one word."And there it was. "You want me to learn the joke."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 49
Kudos: 730





	If Your Dog Has No Nose, How Does It Smell?

**Author's Note:**

> I feel an explanation may be in order. I was watching Monty Python last year, the _Funniest Joke in the World_ sketch came on, and my brain went: hmmmmm, yes. Now, Alby's a no-good rotten enabler (<3), so I did actually write most of this back then—then shoved it in a file, ne'er to see the light of day. Or so I thought! 
> 
> If you aren't familiar with the sketch in question: [Ta-Da! You can watch it here](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2hwqqd), but we go AU from about four minutes in.
> 
> (Title comes from one of the failed German attempts to develop a killer joke of their own.)

**_London, January 1944_ **

Steve slumped on the bed, too damn tired to appreciate the luxury of it being a bed he was slumping on. Too damn tired to appreciate the fact the bed was in a hotel room, a _warm_ hotel room, papered walls and glass windows with lace curtains and a solid door with a lock. Even with the Blitz-borne patina that coated everything in London, it was luxury like he hadn't experienced in months.

And here he was, too damn tired to appreciate it.

The bed bounced as Bucky dropped to sit next to him.

"Satisfied?" Steve asked.

"It'll do."

While Steve had been sitting on the bed, failing to appreciate the taste of luxury he'd been given, Bucky had been prowling the room, checking the glass windows, twitching aside the lace curtains, fiddling with the door and its lock. He didn't trust anything he hadn't checked with his own two hands and his own two eyes, and Steve knew that the window, at least, was now decked out in more than lace.

He hoped it was just the window. "You didn't trap the door, right?"

"I'm not gonna set something up that's gonna take out the maid."

He'd known that. He did know that. "Yeah, I know. I just—"

Bucky cut him off. "Wouldn't be you if you didn't make sure."

"Something like that."

Bucky nudged him with his shoulder, then flopped backwards. "Why do you think they hauled us back here in such a hurry?"

Steve twisted to face him, pulling up one knee so he could rest his folded arms on it. "Us? Don't remember there being an _us_ in the recall order."

All it got him was an unconcerned handwave. "I'm your sergeant. Everyone knows captains can't wipe their asses without a sergeant there to hold their hand. They'll be glad to see me."

"Really, Buck? You're gonna hold my hand while I wipe my ass?"

Bucky grinned up at him, eyes bright, and Steve barked out a laugh. It set Bucky off and Steve pitched forward, landing next to Bucky, whole body shaking. They laughed like idiots until exhaustion made them stop and then lay there, breathing together, Bucky's face buried in the blanket, one arm flung across Steve's chest.

Warmth pulsed out from the point of contact. Moments like this had become almost non-existent. Bucky was as likely to shy away from a friendly touch as he was to lean into it, and Steve had learned to be careful with him.

Neither of them was who they'd been before the war, and the war sure as shit wasn't Brooklyn, but Steve had a gut-deep certainty it was Azzano that had made Bucky touch-shy. Bucky refused to talk about it—the one time Steve had pushed, Bucky had damn near taken a swing at him—but his nightmares were revealing.

"I'm taking the bed," Bucky's muffled voice proclaimed, cutting Steve's anger off before it could rise.

"Sorry, you're what?"

"Taking the bed." Bucky pulled his arm away and pushed up on his elbow. "There's only one, and as the superior officer, you have to look after your men. That means you have to give me the bed."

Steve stared at him, then gave the only possible response: he pushed him off the bed.

Bucky cackled as he hit the floor.

Steve stretched out, making sure to cover as much of the bed as he could, and rested his chin on the edge. "I'd pay good money for you to repeat that superior officer speech somewhere the rest of them can hear you. Dum Dum would have a heart attack from shock."

"Can't blame me for trying."

"Are you sure about that?"

Bucky stretched to his feet, cracking his back, and shoved Steve out of the way to sit on the bed. "I'm sure. And there isn't going to be another room in this place, so one of us is going to have to sleep on the floor."

"Or I could see if there's a folding bed they can send up."

"Or you could do that."

Bucky leaned into him and Steve shifted onto his side, letting his arm curl around him. "Unless you want to share it?" he asked, carefully casual.

"No." Steve felt his back stiffen, but he didn't move away. "I don't… No."

"Folding bed it is, then."

Tomorrow, Steve had a meeting with too many high-ranking officers, which he knew from experience never meant anything good.

Tonight, after a decent meal and a glass of whisky that'd done nothing but remind him booze was wasted on him, he was lying in a not entirely uncomfortable British Army camp-cot, acquired by the hotel from who knew where, while Bucky slept in the luxury of a bed.

Bucky, who technically wasn't supposed to be here. Bucky, who was only here because of sloppily written orders and an unwillingness to let Steve go alone anywhere he could wrangle a way to follow.

The Bucky-lump under the blankets rolled over, stretched, sighed a little, relaxed and calm, and that was luxury enough for Steve.

* * *

"Stop fidgeting," Bucky hissed.

Steve glared at his leg, like it was his leg's fault it was jittering up and down. Not Steve's irritation at how long they'd been sitting here in this beige waiting room. He knew _hurry up and wait_ were the army's watchwords, but they weren't words they were used to living by. Steve's people did things their own way in their own time and any waiting around they got stuck with was for sound tactical reasons, not because someone didn't know how to keep an appointment.

"I'm not fidgeting," he lied.

Bucky clamped a hand around his thigh, holding it still. "Then stop whatever this is, will you? It's driving me batty."

He was saved from having to answer by the door opening. The door-opener was saved from a truly impressive glare by being Peggy.

"Captain Rogers." Her mouth quirked slightly as she added, "And Sergeant Barnes. If you'd come through, please?"

Bucky's salute was returned as ironically as it'd been given, since that kind of formality between Bucky and Peggy just...didn't happen. It didn't happen between Peggy and any of them. Not if there wasn't someone around to care. 

Here, at Allied High Command, everyone would care. Peggy's lips quirked again as she met Steve's eyes and he knew she was thinking the same thing. The moment passed, and her amusement faded, leaving behind something darker, something that had him standing straighter, his heart beating faster. A glance at Bucky told him Bucky had seen it, too.

Whatever was waiting for them in that room was big.

Bucky fell in behind him as Steve followed Peggy, and he found himself under the gaze of six men, enough brass and flash between them to blind the entire Luftwaffe.

Only one American, but given _who_ that American was, one was enough. He looked up. "Captain Rogers."

"Sir," Steve said, and saluted as smartly as he knew how.

"And Sergeant Barnes." A hint of disapproval there, but Bucky fell in beside him and saluted, far more sharply than Steve had.

"Yes, Sir."

"I don't recall inviting you."

"The orders weren't entirely clear," Steve said, jumping in before Bucky could reply. "I didn't want to risk getting them wrong."

"Hmm." A look went around the table, a subtle nod, then they were being waved into chairs. "Sit."

They sat, and Peggy did the same, her hands resting on a file in front of her. The way she was touching it was more the way someone would handle a bomb—or the leash of a rabid dog.

"Agent Carter. If you'd do the honours?"

"Sir." She took a small breath, one Steve was sure no one else noticed, and looked Steve straight in the eyes. "We've developed a weapon that can take out the Germans. One they can't defend against. One no one can defend against."

Steve had heard it before. They all had. Every other week, someone came up with something to defeat the Germans once and for all. None of them worked. Even Steve was a failure in the once and for all department; sure, he was useful, but so was a tank.

But it was _Peggy_ telling him this. It was Peggy telling him this in a room full of the Brits' top brass and a US General who wouldn't have anything to do with rumours and fairy tales. "You're sure about this?"

"We're sure."

She opened the folder and slid a photo across the table towards him. Bucky leaned closer to peer at it. It was nothing special, a picture of a shaggy haired man with a messy beard and pale, almost sallow skin—there was something very English about him. She passed him another, this one of an older woman, grey haired, skinny, similar look to the first one.

"We're going to show photos to the Germans and bore them to death?" Bucky said under his breath.

Peggy narrowed her eyes at him and tapped the first photo. "That was Ernest Scribbler, a writer of jokes." She tapped the second. "That was his mother. They're both dead."

She slid over a photo of a British police officer. "He died retrieving what killed them."

Steve studied the photos, then looked up at Peggy. "What's the weapon?"

"A joke."

He didn't need to look at Bucky to know he was staring incredulously at Peggy. He didn't need to look around the room to know the men who'd summoned him here were staring at him; he could feel the weight of their gaze. He didn't look away from Peggy as he said, perfectly neutrally, "A joke."

She folded her hands and said, "Yes, Captain Rogers, a joke."

"Are you seriously telling me a joke killed them?" Bucky sounded just as neutral as Steve had. Steve was _proud_ of him, since he knew Bucky had to be in the same place Steve was—wanting to yell _what the fuck_? at these men who'd never seen a minute of the war they sent men to die in and thought a joke was a weapon. _That_ was the joke and it sure as hell killed people.

Why was Peggy going along with it?

"It's been tested, Sergeant." There was disapproval in Peggy's voice he knew wasn't for Bucky. "It works. Mr Scribbler accidentally created a joke so funny that it kills people. They die laughing. It's been translated into German, one translator per word. Even so, there's been casualties."

He and Bucky stared at her. She met each of their eyes in turn, giving a slight nod, and he understood part of why she was here. There was no one else Steve would be prepared to believe.

And he was starting to. A killer joke. He wanted to bury his face in his hands and laugh. Hell. Was it any harder to believe than the reality of _him_? Wasn't he just as impossible? "Alright. You've developed a killer joke that can take out the Germans. What do you need me for?"

One of the British Commanders leaned forward. "The problem we're facing, Captain Rogers, is that it's a weapon almost too dangerous to use, since an _ordinary_ man," he said meaningfully, "can only take one word."

And there it was. "You want me to learn the joke."

"You're Captain America. You can do things no ordinary man can do. If anyone can withstand the force of it and survive, it's you."

There was an explosion next to him, hands slamming on the table as Bucky shot to his feet. "No!"

"Sergeant!" Peggy snapped.

"Steve speaks German!"

"Sergeant Barnes, sit down!"

"You give him the translated joke and he'll _understand_ it. It'll be a joke to him. What if he can't take it and it kills him? There's no way to test it."

Steve very softly said, "Bucky," and wrapped a hand around his arm, trying to pull him back down, but Bucky whipped around to glare at him out of eyes filled with fire. "No. You're not doing this." He spun back around. "Give me half. It's a joke, right? Give me the punchline."

"Two words have half-killed ordinary men, and you want to be given the entire punchline?"

"I'm not exactly ordinary any more, am I?"

Steve went still, fingers digging into Bucky's arm.

"Steve knows it, Agent Carter knows it. Don't you?" After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, reluctantly. "Well, now I'm admitting it. Give me the other half of your damn joke. I speak German, too, but I can take it, and I'm not letting you kill Steve."

Angry, offended silence followed, officers at their level not accustomed to being spoken to that way, but Steve watched them put it aside as they considered it. Their willingness to do so convinced him more than anything that this was real.

"It would be an elegant solution," one said. 

"And accidentally killing Captain America would be bad for morale," said another as the rest nodded in agreement.

Bucky's teeth ground together, Steve could _hear_ them, but he didn't say anything.

"Agent Carter? Your thoughts?" the first one asked.

Steve projected _don't_ at her as hard as he could, _don't_ , _please, Peggy_ , but she either didn't pick up on it or she was ignoring him, because she said, "I have a great deal of faith in Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes separately. Together, I'm not sure there's anything they can't accomplish."

"That's settled then. Together, you will carry the joke against the Germans."

* * *

The entire walk back to the hotel, neither of them spoke, but the silence had thorns; brush against it and you'd come away bloody. It lasted until they were inside the hotel room. Steve gently shut the door and leaned against it, not sure if he needed the support or if he was blocking Bucky's escape. Symbolically blocking it, since Bucky could easily disable his traps and go out the window.

Bucky turned to face him, and Steve knew this was what he'd look like if he had to face down a firing squad. Defiant, daring Steve to do his worse.

Steve didn't want to do his worse. He wanted to do his best. He just wasn't sure what Bucky needed that to be. Finally, eventually, he settled on a quiet, "You don't talk about it."

Bucky startled; it obviously wasn't what he'd been expecting.

"When I tried to make you, and I shouldn’t have, you just about decked me."

The defiance held for a few more seconds, then ran away like water. Bucky sagged, slumped, dragged in a deep breath and let it out slow. "I know."

"I'm not gonna try and make you do it now."

Bucky lifted his head and searched his face. "Even though I just gave a big part of it away?"

"Even though."

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky laughed, shaking his head. "How did we end up here?"

"Walked up the stairs, turned left down the hall, came in through the door…"

He both was and wasn't surprised when Bucky crossed the room to half-heartedly punch him in the chest. He was surprised when he left his hand where it landed and leaned on him.

"I know war changes people. I know that. But it's not supposed to be into this." He spread his hand wide over Steve's chest.

Very gently, Steve mirrored the movement, pressing his palm against Bucky's chest. "Or this?"

Panic flared in Bucky's eyes, his hand curled into a fist, shoved against Steve's chest, but Steve held steady, and it faded, replaced by weariness. "Yeah."

He'd known, of course he'd known, Bucky was different—stronger, faster, better endurance—but today was the first time he'd ever admitted it. This, right here, was the first time he'd ever told Steve.

"I'm sorry."

Bucky shoved back, eyes dark and angry. "Don't say you're _sorry_. It's not your fault. You didn't do this to me. Zola did."

"Not what I meant, Buck. I'm sorry I put you in a position you were forced to say something."

"Still applies. You didn't force me to do anything. I made my choice. It was a shitty choice, but they weren't gonna give you one and I wasn't going to stand by and let them risk killing you for a goddamned _joke_." He shook his head. "Seriously. A fucking joke? Can you believe this crap?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't know. The whole war feels like a bad joke. This fits right in."

It made Bucky snort, a quick moment of dark laughter. "You've got that right." 

Later, when night had fallen and it was dark and quiet, Steve shifted on the folding cot and it creaked in protest.

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck?"

"Get your ass up here, will you?"

In the dark, Steve smiled. "You sure?"

"Did I sound like I wasn't sure?" Bucky asked, the question all sergeant. "Besides, I don't want to get woken up when it finally collapses and dumps you on your ass."

Steve laughed under his breath, clambered off the cot, and climbed under the blanket Bucky was holding up for him.

"Just like being back in Brooklyn, huh?" Bucky said as Steve got settled, turning over so he was facing the door with his back to Steve.

"Not really." He shifted to press his back against Bucky's, felt Bucky relax against him, and closed his eyes. "But I reckon it's as close as we're gonna get."

* * *

They gave them the joke in a soundproof room in a bunker deep beneath London HQ under the eagle-eyed supervision of Colonel Phillips. Bucky went first. Steve wasn't sure how he managed to arrange that, but he'd done it, leaving Steve cooling his heels while his heart pounded out an entire orchestra's worth of worry as, one at a time, pasty English clerks went into the room and one at a time they came out again.

Each one was carrying a locked case with one translated word of the joke. One at a time they were delivering their burden to Bucky, loading it into his mind like unstable ordinance, trusting that what Zola had done to him meant he'd survive.

The clerks went in. The clerks came out. Steve's heart pounded harder until the door opened again, and Bucky staggered out, pale and sweating. Steve was across the room before he'd decided to move, hands clamped on his shoulders. "Bucky."

"I'm okay," he said, swaying as Steve held him upright.

Steve made a noise, disbelief, worry, and Bucky stood straighter. "No, I'm fine." He was looking better, colour coming back. "Worst part is, damn things not even funny."

"Punchline without a joke, of course it's not funny." He let his hands slide down Bucky's arms to his elbows, squeezed once, and let go. 

Bucky scoffed and went to sit where Steve had been waiting for him. "I know funny and this? Not funny."

"You think The Three Stooges are funny."

"That's because they are."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Bucky opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Colonel Phillips cut him off. "As deeply interested as I am in your opinions on modern comedy, if we could get on with it?"

The soundproofed room was white, walls, ceiling, floor, like being trapped in a lightbulb. The clerks came in, one after another, carrying their locked cases, unlocked them and slid them across the desk for him to open and read. The words were heavy, each one growing heavier, and he understood how Atlas felt, carrying the world, how Sisyphus felt, endlessly pushing the boulder up the hill, as the words poured into him.

The last one clicked into place and he had the first part of the joke. One half of a weapon more dangerous than all the super soldiers in the world. He wanted to laugh. It was so ridiculous, he wanted to laugh and never stop, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the words in his head.

But nothing was more ridiculous than war.

Bucky was waiting for him when he came out of the room. "Is your half funny or not?"

"Funnier than your Stooges, anyway," he said, and Bucky rolled his eyes. 

* * *

They tested the joke in battle at Ardennes.

Steve and Bucky went alone. Their men all spoke German, to varying degrees of fluency, and it would have been death to bring them.

They hit the German lines, ear wardens rendering them the next thing to deaf, Steve's shield held high, protecting them both, as they hollered out the joke. Steve first, full, clear voice trained to carry to the back of a theatre, Bucky following up with the punchline.

They kept running behind the shield, bellowing out their part of the joke, and laughter followed them. Not gunfire, not orders to attack, just endless, helpless laughter they couldn't hear—and the thump, thump, thump of falling bodies.

Neither of them had lifted a weapon and a platoon of German soldiers was dead, faces twisted in smiles of delight. 

Steve stared back down the line and shuddered, hands tightening around the shield. He hadn't really believed it would work. Not in his gut, not where it counted. Now that it had… He knew the soldiers would be just as dead if they'd shot them, if Dernier had blown them up, if he'd smashed them with his shield, but it wasn't the same.

This felt like murder.

Steve dug his ear wardens out and Bucky did the same. "Never again," Steve said, voice hard. "Not even against HYDRA."

"Not unless they start using HYDRA-language and we can learn it, translate this thing in our heads into it."

If there'd been civilians in earshot, if there'd been prisoners, anyone who understood German… "This is like standing on a hill spraying bullets into a crowd, hoping you hit the right people."

"Imagine if they figure out a way to broadcast it, to send a signal into Berlin. It won't just be soldiers sitting around listening to the radio."

Steve could imagine it. "We need to talk to Peggy."

"Think she'll help?"

"I hope so."

* * *

Agent Carter, much like Captain Rogers, hadn't quite believed in the truth of the joke. Not in her gut, not where it counted. When Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes sat her down and talked to her after Ardennes, then she believed.

When Sergeant Barnes introduced her to the horrifying possibility of the joke being broadcast—which they _wouldn'_ t be needed for; the words had been translated and anyone could record them, one word at a time—she listened.

Over the next few months, each individual word of the joke was secretly replaced, along with every copy of the joke entire. No one noticed. No one _could_ notice. The joke couldn't be read without dying, and each word on its own was meaningless.

Agent Carter's task was made easier by the distraction of Captain America and Sergeant Barnes' refusal to cooperate.

They made it very clear they would not be wielding the joke and returned to their team with the reluctant support of Colonel Phillips—who'd made the begrudgingly accepted point that no one could force them to use the joke. 

Unbeknownst to anyone but Agent Carter and Captain Rogers, when Sergeant Barnes fell from the train his half of the joke was lost forever, her clandestine work having eliminated every copy.

When Captain Rogers put the plane down in the Arctic, the killer joke was forever lost to history. It became nothing more than a footnote to the strangeness of war, kin to inflatable tanks and the night the Alexandria harbour disappeared.

* * *

That was the theory, anyway.

* * *

**_New York, 2016_ **

"You doing okay, Bucky?" Steve settled on the couch next to him, careful not to sit too close. A broken nose early on had taught them it was better that way. Steve hadn't given a damn about a broken nose, but Bucky hated that he'd hurt him. It had been enough to institute the Steve-keeps-his-distance rule; thankfully it only went one way. 

"How'd it go?" Bucky asked instead of answering.

"Good, I think. We did it exactly as planned, and everyone seemed happy with how it was going. Pepper's team will have a report for you tomorrow morning, and every day after that." He rolled his shoulders. "You don't have to read them, but they strongly suggest you stay away from social media for the next few weeks."

Bucky hummed non-committally.

It had been Bucky's decision to go public with who he was. To get ahead of the barest hint of rumour that had started to circulate. Pieces of his puzzle existed in the files Nat had released; eventually someone was going to put them together, but there was no way of knowing what picture they'd make of them. Bucky had decided to take control and Pepper had thrown the weight of Stark Industries' media team behind him—after offering him the might of its legal team.

As of—Steve glanced at the clock on the wall—two hours ago, James Barnes's continued existence had officially been confirmed to the public.

"Buck? Are you okay?"

Bucky stared thoughtfully into the distance, absently chewing on his bottom lip. His hair was down and it fluttered gently in the breeze from the open window. From _their_ open window, since this apartment was theirs. This couch was theirs. The window was theirs.

Bucky's, "I don't know," stopped him from laying mental joint claim to everything else in his line of sight. "Okay compared to what?" He tipped his head to look at Steve, nothing in his eyes but amused curiosity.

That curiosity warmed Steve all the way through. There'd been months when there'd been _nothing_ in those eyes, months when they'd been a gateway to hell, months of a mirror that gave him nothing but what Bucky thought he wanted to see, more months of hell, and somehow they'd fought their way out of it— _Bucky_ had fought his way out of it—to wind up here: Bucky sitting on their couch in their apartment looking at him…

Okay, now he was looking at Steve like Steve was an idiot.

"Earth to Steve?" Bucky hid a grin. "You with me?"

"Yeah, sorry, I was just…" He waved a hand that took in all of Bucky. "Just."

"Just, huh?" Bucky said and Steve nodded sheepishly. Bucky slid his metal hand down Steve's arm, fingers coming to rest in a light curl around his wrist. "Just away."

He laughed and turned his hand, pressed his fingertips to Bucky's wrist, the metal smooth and cool under his touch.

"Are _you_ okay?" Bucky asked.

"I don't know. Okay compared to what?"

"Smartass." Bucky pulled his hand away and poked him in the ribs, then leaned back, stretching his arms high above his head, the metal gleaming in the afternoon sun. "But come on, it's a fair question," he said as he slumped down. " _Okay_ is kinda meaningless. I mean, one person's okay could mean fantastic and another person's okay could mean I'm not gonna jump off a building today but check in tomorrow."

"Buck!"

"It's true."

"Yeah, fair." He turned to face Bucky, conscious of the space between them and how much he didn't want it to be there. "How about this: how are you feeling?"

"Better."

"You're feeling better?"

"No, it's a better question." He grinned at Steve's disgruntled huff. "And I'd feel a lot better if you weren't all the way over there."

He didn't ask if Bucky was sure. Bucky knew his own mind, his own wants, and Steve sure as hell knew his. He closed the distance between them and wriggled his arm between Bucky and the couch cushions, pulling him in and wrapping both arms around him. Bucky put his head on his shoulder, nose brushing Steve's neck, and Steve felt Bucky's body melt into his. Steve held him tighter as it triggered a chain reaction, tension leaving his own muscles, stress evaporating, mind slowing down for the first time all day.

"Better," Bucky whispered and kissed his skin.

It raised goosebumps but Steve just smiled and kissed the top of his head. "Yeah."

"You don't have to do the distance thing anymore."

Steve made a questioning noise.

"You had to before, keeping your distance 'til I got close," Bucky reached up to rub the bridge of Steve's nose apologetically, "but you don't anymore."

Steve caught Bucky's hand, kissed his palm, and said, "I like the sound of that."

"I'm not saying sneak up on me—"

"Do I look stupid?"

Bucky lifted his head to study him, making a show of it, Steve could _feel_ the weight of his gaze, then lifted a single eyebrow.

"Shut up."

Bucky gave him a quick grin. "Like I was saying, don't sneak up on me, make sure I know you're there, but I think we're good if you, to take a totally random example, sit next to me on the couch instead of forty miles away."

"It was a couple of feet."

"Felt like forty miles."

"We can't have that." He nudged his nose against Bucky's cheek, kissing across his chin. "Put me wherever makes you happy."

Bucky's low laugh, rumbling through his chest, was the only warning he had before he was flat on his back with Bucky straddling his hips, grinning down at him.

"You said put you wherever makes me happy." He shoved a pillow under Steve's head. "This makes me happy."

"You won't hear me complaining." He reached up to curl a hand in Bucky's hair, letting the silky length of it slide through his fingers. "Hey," he said, softer. "You never told me how you were feeling."

"I feel good, Steve." Bucky planted both hands on his chest, one pale and one gleaming silver. "I know who I am. I'm not going to hide it or pretend to be someone else." His eyes were bright and clear as he gazed down at Steve. "I'm James Buchanan Barnes, and I survived, and I'll shout it from the goddamn rooftops."

Steve tangled his fingers in his hair and pulled him down into a kiss.

* * *

They'd spent time working through the potential consequences of confirming Bucky's identity. _They_ being Stark Industries' media and legal teams, Natasha, Sam, Maria, a few others Steve trusted. Even Tony, with his unique perspective from the wrong side of the world's tabloids, had offered his input.

Months later, when it all went to shit, it wasn't anything anyone could have predicted.

* * *

After two days in the desert hunting HYDRA, Steve and Bucky were both bone weary, but a nap and a meal left them restless. A quiet walk to the nearby park, where there was a pond and trees, cool and green, had seemed just the ticket. If Steve had been more alert, he'd have wondered why it was empty; instead, he'd just thanked their luck. It happened sometimes, natural lulls, and it _was_ an odd time, most people going through their evening dinner rituals at home.

It hadn't been luck. It had been a trap. The gas had been odourless, tasteless, misting down from the trees above. By the time they'd realised what was happening, it'd been too late.

* * *

Steve opened his eyes to a head like fog and the sound of Bucky's voice. _Bucky._ The wash of relief left him shaking. He clenched his fists to make it stop. Neither was easy. He was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, if the cook was expecting the turkey to pull a Hulk and smash up the kitchen. Thick bands of metal wrapped his wrists, pinning them together, wrapped his chest, his ankles, his thighs, effectively immobilising him. They were attached to both the chair he was sitting in and the thick metal pillars that ran from ceiling to floor on either side. Above his head was a mess of wires and lights. He strained, trying to break out of the bonds, but they didn't even creak.

Whoever had them, they'd set a trap—and he had to wonder how long they'd been waiting; had they just been hiding in the park, hunters in a blind, hoping he and Bucky would wander into place?—for super soldiers and they were prepared for what they'd caught. 

"Come again?" Bucky said, and Steve's gaze flicked to him. He was identically trussed, and he looked pissed about it, hair falling in his face. He shook it back, fixing the nondescript man he was talking to with a glare. "You're what?"

"I said, I'm The Hysterian." A name like that should have been _proclaimed_ , possibly with a swirl of a cape, but there was no cape in evidence. Just jeans, a green sweater vest, a white collared shirt and matching white sneakers. If someone with a ridiculous name was going to successfully capture him and Bucky, Steve felt like he could at least do them the courtesy of having the style to match it. This man, leaning on a console that was the same pale beige as the walls and the ceiling, had pasty skin, grizzled, grey-blond hair, and no style whatsoever.

"Hear that, Steve?" Bucky said. "He's The Hysterian."

"I heard it. Not sure what it means, but I heard it." He paused a beat. "Kind of wish I could unhear it."

Bucky choked on a laugh.

The Hysterian's eyes narrowed. "Because Captain America is so much better."

 _I scored a point, there._ "I didn't choose it," Steve said, doing his best to shrug when he couldn't move.

"And it _is_ better," Bucky chimed in. "Objectively. I mean, what the hell is a hysterian?" 

"Me! _I'm_ The Hysterian. It's a portmanteau of hysterical historian, which is what I am, and it's _clever_." He practically hissed the last word, then cleared his throat and tugged at the front of his vest. "It makes perfect sense," he said calmly.

"You're a historian who can't control his emotions?" This _was_ starting to make sense. Steve shared a look with Bucky. It wouldn't be the first time something like this had happened.

Okay, it would be the first time something _exactly_ like this had happened, but, once they'd believed he was, genuinely, Steve Rogers returned from the presumed-dead, he'd been stalked, hounded, and ambushed by historians of all kinds. Since going public with his identity, Bucky had started to get a taste of it, although they were warier of him.

The Hysterian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hysterical as in funny."

"I'm not laughing," Bucky said.

"Not even a little," Steve added.

A slow smile spread across The Hysterian's face. "You're not the intended audience. You see, when I was a kid all I wanted to be was a comedian. I used to watch them on TV, tape their routines and practice them until I knew them by heart, until I could repeat them word for word." His nostrils flared. "But it didn't work out, so instead I got my PhD in history. Spent some time at MIT and dabbled in technology. Studied the history of comedy in my spare time."

"I kinda _feel_ like we're the audience," Bucky muttered. Steve rolled his eyes in agreement.

"Most people don't really _understand_ the importance of comedy. The importance of laughter. Did you know human beings are the only animal that laughs?"

"Chimps," Bucky said.

"Dolphins," Steve offered.

"Kookaburras," Bucky said, and when Steve and The Hysterian both looked confused, explained, "Carnivorous bird, lives in Australia, laughs like a serial killer."

"How do you know that?" Steve asked.

"Animal Planet. Oh, and rats, too. They laugh."

"Rats?" Steve asked. "Really?"

"Yeah, but it's too high pitched for us to hear."

"Enough!" The Hysterian yelled. "Enough. That's," he took a deep breath, "enough. I want the joke."

"What joke?" The reply was automatic, but Steve knew what joke. He could feel his half bubbling to the surface, along with the memory of Ardennes.

"The joke. The joke that kills people. The joke that most historians think _is_ a joke, that every comedian thinks is an urban legend. I know it's real, I've got the original police reports from the day Scribbler died. I've got copies of the British Army's tests and the death certificate of the soldier they tested it on. Every record of the joke may have been replaced by nonsense, but I _know_ it's real. And I know it's still alive—because both of you are alive." He leaned forward, hands balled into fists. "And each of you knows half of it."

Steve said nothing, didn't even glance at the equally silent Bucky.

"I've got those records, too, even if it took some work to figure out what they were talking about. I know you tested it at Ardennes. I know it worked. When it was just you," he said to Steve, "it didn't matter. Knowing you had it was just an oddity because half the joke was worthless. Frustrating, but worthless." He smiled. "But then you," he said to Bucky, "turned up alive, confirmed you were who you'd always been, and I knew it was a sign. My time had come. The _joke's_ time had come."

Bucky eyed him. "And if we give you the joke, you'll, what, let us go?"

"We'll see."

"I think that's a no," Steve said to Bucky. 

"That's definitely a no," Bucky replied. 

"It's not a no," The Hysterian said, "it's just not a yes."

Steve snorted. "No or yes, we're not telling you, so looks like we're at an impasse."

"Oh, you'll tell me." He leaned over the console, pressed something, and the framework surrounding them hummed to life, light flashing from one of the many screens mounted on the console.

"Buddy," Bucky drawled. "Pal. You know who I am. Former Winter Solder, tortured by Hydra for 70 odd years? This ringing any bells?" The Hysterian nodded. "So what exactly do you think you can do to me that hasn't already been done?" He flashed Steve an _is this guy stupid, or what?_ look. 

Steve had long since gotten comfortable with the unsettling combination of love and rage and laughter Bucky could raise in him, the strange cocktail that was Bucky's, that _was_ Bucky, but it could still leave him breathless. Even here. Even in the middle of this.

Bucky's eyes glinted, love and lust and something unnameable as a tiny smile shivered across his mouth; Steve met it a little helplessly with one of his own.

"Hey!"

They glared as one at The Hysterian, who took half a step back, then gathered himself and squared his shoulders.

"I'm not going to torture you."

Bucky snorted. "Amateur."

"Buck," Steve said, pained.

"I don't have to. I can lift the joke right out of your heads."

It was said with such absolute conviction, such complete matter-of-factness, that Steve went still. Bucky's face slowly went blank, emotion draining away until his eyes were cold as an arctic morning.

"You think those contraptions I have you strapped to are for the aesthetic?"

Steve glanced up. There were a lot of wires, stretched tight in a metal spiderweb above his head, LED lights flashing in a pulsing electronic heartbeat as they followed the wires, then wrapped around and around the metal pillars that bracketed his body and disappeared into the floor. "Yes," he said flatly. 

"Okay, maybe a touch." His fingers moved over the keys and the spiderweb lowered to wrap around Steve's head. "But most of it's there to do the job." With a frown of concentration, he typed for a few minutes, then glanced up at the array of screens. "This probably won't hurt."

"Reassuring."

"Best I can do when I'm working with adapted technology." He pressed a button. "Stolen adapted technology." Another button. "And there…we…go."

The room disappeared.

Steve was back in London, back in 1944, before Bucky fell, before he put the plane in the ocean, watching…himself.

His past self was sitting on a bench in a nondescript courtyard in London HQ, huddled close to Peggy. They were both wearing their formal uniforms. The sky was overcast, a heavy, sullen grey. He could almost feel the biting cold. Bucky leaned on the wall next to past-him, uniform hidden by his blue coat, cigarette dangling between two fingers as he kept watch.

It was the day after they'd returned from Ardennes.

"I understand," Peggy was saying, eyes hard. "And I agree. The joke isn't something we can use." Her gaze went distant; Steve could almost see the plans lining up in her head. "It won't be easy. I'll have to get every copy." 

Bucky blew a smoke ring and smiled, brash and charming. "If it was easy, we wouldn't need you."

The look she gave him was quelling, but under the flash, Steve could see he meant it. He knew Peggy could see it, too.

"If the two of you do your part, you can trust me to do mine."

"We trust you," past-him said.

Next to past-him, Bucky said, "Course we do," and snorted. "Not sure there's anyone else we can."

"Right, then." Peggy stood, smoothing down her skirt. "No time to waste and you're both due to report in less than an hour."

The image faded and Steve was left blinking with the shock of being momentarily thrust back into the past then ripped out of it.

"Steve?" Bucky said softly.

"You saw it?"

"We all saw it," The Hysterian said. "That's how it works. And that explains what happened to the records." He looked satisfied. "It's only going to take the tiniest tweak to get me to the joke itself. Not bad for a first try."

He bent his head, concentrating on the screens in front of him, fingers dancing over a keyboard as he kept talking. "There's a cliché that gets trotted out when people want to sound smart, about those who fail to learn from history being doomed to repeat it. But it's stupid, because people who don't learn from history just fail, usually in exciting new ways. It applies to comedy, too. You think history's a vicious bitch? You try standing in front of the audience at a comedy club. They'll rip you to pieces."

He stopped typing and gazed lovingly at nothing. "The joke, though. The killer joke. It's," he sighed dreamily, "perfect, it was just born too soon. This, here and now, with everyone online, everyone connected, _that's_ when it was made for, and I'm going to use it to reshape the foundations of the world." He grinned and started typing again. "Imagine a Rickroll that kills. Once the internet starts killing people, they're going to abandon it in droves. And then they'll slow down. They'll start _thinking_ again. They'll have to learn from history because they won't have any choice."

Sam had introduced Steve to the Rickroll. First it'd been funny and then it'd been annoying. What it had never been was fatal. But loose the joke on the internet, translated into who knew how many languages, and it'd be a _massacre_. After Ardennes, they'd been worried about it being broadcast into Berlin; that would have been _nothing_ compared to this.

And this asshole was going to lift it right out of their heads.

Steve threw himself against his bonds, straining and twisting even as Bucky did the same, but they didn't give.

Escape wasn't an option, but this couldn't happen.

He met Bucky's eyes. He didn't say it; he didn't have to. Just like he didn't have to say _I lo_ ve _you_. Bucky could read everything in his eyes and on his face. Steve saw it land, watched him swallow hard, and then understanding, agreement, love blazed back at him.

It tore through him and without turning away, he began to tell the joke. In English, not German, translating his half on the fly.

"What are you—" The Hysterian started, but Steve was done. It was Bucky's turn, and maybe his mental translation was a little slower than Steve's, but his German was better than it'd been during the war and the punchline came out clear and clean. As he spoke the last word, his mouth snapped shut and his eyes rolled back in his head, body shaking with laughter as it bowed against the restraints.

The Hysterian laughed uproariously even as he screamed a denial, his laughter spiralling higher and higher until it abruptly choked off, followed by the thump of his body hitting the floor.

The urge to laugh was a fire in Steve's mind, but something was fighting back. He swallowed down a strained, choking, hybrid laugh-cough to holler, "Bucky!", because Bucky's laughter was dying. Steve thrashed against his bonds, cursing and straining, desperate to get to him. Muscles tore and bones bent to the breaking point and the chair, weakened by his previous attempts, ripped out of the floor.

With the extra leverage, he managed to twist and slam his whole weight down, snapping his bonds off the poles. He shuffled to Bucky's side. "Bucky. Bucky, come on. Think of things that aren't funny."

Bucky dragged in deep, gulping breaths, coughed, then opened his eyes. "Like what?"

Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky's temple. "Three Stooges. Always a good place to start."

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?" Bucky closed his eyes as a shudder wracked his body, then he slumped in exhaustion. "They're hilarious."

"I'll poke you in the eye, you tell me how funny it is."

"Well, it won't be funny if _you're_ doing it. I mean, you can't even tell a joke right. We should be dead, but here we are, breathing and—"

Steve kissed him. It was awkward as hell, given he was still trussed up and strapped to the chair, but he kissed him anyway, hard and desperate, and Bucky returned it just as desperately.

"—and I'm goddamn happy about it."

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah."

"Is he dead?"

"Think so."

Bucky nudged him with his head. "Go make sure and see if you can get me out of these."

The Hysterian was definitely dead. Steve shuffle-kicked him out the way and found the controls for Bucky's bonds, which he managed, after some trial and error, to release by poking keys with his nose. Eventually, using his metal arm and some repurposed bits torn from the console, Bucky managed to break Steve free.

Ignoring the pain of healing muscles and bone, he grabbed Bucky only to find Bucky grabbing for him. They ended up in a heap on the floor. 

"We're destroying that thing," Bucky said, curling his metal hand into Steve's hair and pulling him closer.

"No arguments here."

Bucky kissed him, gentle, hand slipping down to cradle his chin, lips soft against his, pulling away to lean back. "Did you know we'd survive?"

"Hoped so, but I didn't know for sure."

"Me neither." Bucky groaned dramatically and hung his head. "Jesus fucking Christ, you know what that means?"

Steve felt a smile tugging at his lips. There shouldn't be, not after all that, but Bucky looked so desperately hangdog he couldn't help it. "What's that?"

Bucky banged his head on Steve's shoulder. "It's means there's _two_ self-sacrificing idiots in this relationship."

Steve burst into surprised laughter and held Bucky tighter.

"Now you laugh," he grumbled, but his eyes were bright.

"You finally said something funny," Steve told him and kissed him. "I love you. Now let's destroy this place and everything in it before we call this in."

"Steve Rogers, you say the sweetest things."


End file.
